


On Earth as it is in Heaven

by JMA



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absolution, Angst, Demon dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Guilt, M/M, Metaphysics, Nightclub, Other, Philosophy, Unable to accurately tag without giving too much away, queer history of London, terrible decisions, unsafe practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMA/pseuds/JMA
Summary: Aziraphale was at Crowley's trial...the first one.For six thousand years Aziraphale felt like an angel who has fallen, waiting for Heaven to realise. His fear and doubt has shaped and defined him. Now, with the Armageddon over and Heaven and Hell off their backs it is finally time to come clean.NOTE Due to the nature of this work it won't be possible to warn or tag ahead of time. This piece is changing as it goes and, while I'm fairly certain it won't go anywhere super dark, there may be triggering content at some stage. Beware.Here be dragons.COMPLETE





	1. War in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by this tumblr post on Crowley's outfit in Rome  
> https://niche-pastiche.tumblr.com/post/186070810892/crowleys-roman-look-is-very-strange
> 
> Special thanks to Ineffable_plans whose encouragement and contributions have been absolutely vital.
> 
> This is not part of the same universe at 'When your mountain has crumbled to dust I will rebuild you from clay'. But feel free to read that anyway

The signs of a storm are there for those who can read them. The smell of impending rain. A change in the sky. Hands stretching out and in. Tension in the shoulder. Movement where there was languid stillness. Short, sharp sentences becoming short, sharp words. Crowley avoids confrontation because his anger is a hurricane. Aziraphale can read the storm.

Things were meant to be different, now that Heaven and Hell knew and were, for the moment at least, leaving them alone. Some things were. They saw more of each other than they had in years. Dinner out, drinks in. Walks in the twilight, with the scent of rain in the air.

It was meant to be different but Aziraphale still suffocating under a low sky and Crowley's storm was brewing.

Crowley would always wait for him, not always patiently. A crack of thunder or two but the storm would not break.

Before. It was meant to be different now.

Short, sharp words.

"Talk. To. Me."

Fear robs Aziraphale of his ability to speak. Nothing had changed after all.

Waiting for the storm is always the worst.

_I was there at your trial._

_No, not that one._

_At your first trial._

Aziraphale can't remember a time without fear.

He was one of the Battle-born, created during the War itself. He has never, ever known Peace.

By the time he came into being they'd graduated from makeshift weapons, from improvised instruments that had been used to bludgeon, ignite, explode, to objects created for the sole purpose of destruction.

The early days of the War had been an education in the deadliness of everyday objects. There were no weapons of war because there had never been a war before, never even a word for it.

It had started philosophical discussions in open forums,and became meetings in out of the way places, then to whispered plans. Those in charge knew, of course they _must_ have known something, but nobody believed in something that had never existed before.

The first night of the revolt was a deadly revelation. It had been a small group, but they had the element of surprise. And as the fear grew so did their numbers. Everyone was afraid. Everyone wanted someone to tell them what to do. 

Aziraphale was born with a sword in hand, orders in his ears, and fear in his heart.

The fear gagged him the first time he'd had to fight. He'd seen the same fear mirrored in the angel opposite him. They were so much the same, blood stained and armed and so very, very afraid. He remembered, even now the fear and shock on the other's face as Aziraphale swung the flaming sword down into flesh that did not yield easily. But there had been no time, he'd had to turn to block another blow and then the other angel was gone and another was in his place. And another. And another.

His body had been built for war, even as his mind shuddered. With each blow another fell, and still he carried on, pushing down his own doubts and fears as the pile of bodies mounted. He was swift, efficient, and very good at his job. If he hesitated at the sound of steel meeting an angelic body, if he stumbled ever so slightly or gasped at the carnage before him, it was over with a quickness that made it impossible for anyone to have noticed. _He_ tried not to notice.

In the brief moments between opponents Aziraphale could see the chaos spread across the heavens. Burning, bleeding, dying. If the visuals were horrifying, they held no candle to the sounds and smells that overtook his senses. The screams filled his ears, the scent of blood invaded his nose and skin and refused to leave.

After the battle he tried to wash the layer of blood and mud and terror from his skin and could not shift the memory of it all. It stayed with him for millennia. The sights, sounds, and smells were ignored, pushed aside, but never forgotten. And the fear. Always the fear.

_Crowley felt like he'd swallowed a mouthful of sand._

_"Loads of people were were at my trial. Don't beat yourself up over it."_

When the War was over the rebels had no trials (there would only ever be one, and that would come later. Soon. But not yet.) Angels fell like shooting stars, their flame streaking across the sky and their screams becoming a whistle on the wind that could not be silenced. It went on for days. For centuries. For eons. 

And fear rode on the whispers of the angels who remained. Fear that it could happen again. They knew now that the face of their neighbour could be the face of their enemy. 

There was no peace after the Fall.

The whispered nightmare had come true.

There had been one last traitor amongst them after all.

The great amphitheatre would doom human memory to paltry imitation. It was impossible in the way that all things angelic were impossible, being both large enough to contain the entire host of Heaven (that remained) and small enough to see and hear everything as close as conversation. The blood of the enemy had been washed clean from the raiment of the victors and the crowd was a sea of white speckled with all the skin and hair tones of a people that would be reflected on Earth. 

And, at the centre of it all the traitor was led to the podium in golden chains, hair a blazing red and eyes as wild as they ever would be.

Kushiel's dark booming voice, the echo of thunderstorms, carried over the assembled host.

"We are gathered here to witness the trial of the angel -"

_"You know my name."_

_Here and now, more than six thousand years later they sit in Aziraphale's bookshop, with the terrible truth being laid out between them, Aziraphale would shake his head._

_"I am so, so sorry my dear," he would say, "it's gone."_

_Crowley would nod and force a swallow of wine down his throat. "I wouldn't want to hear it anyway."_

_Aziraphale can't tell if it is a lie or not. It may be both._

"..the angel - - who is accused of sympathising with the rebels." Kushiel's muscular arms, which would go on to swing the blade of judgement upon countless mortals, were raised at the crowd. A roar echoed through the assembled host.

Aziraphale felt the air grow thick and heavy.

“Traitor!” They shouted, fists raised. Fear and anger live an angel’s breath apart 

Traitor. 

The prisoner was given a push and stumbled to the front of the stage. Aziraphale did not know him. He knew few of them, really. He had been born too late to get to know any angel as they were before the war. He found himself captivated, unable to turn away from the proceedings.

"I'm not a traitor!" The prisoner yelled, defiant and pleading at once, "I did my duty. I fought for God!"

The host hissed and jeered.

"I fought them just like you did! I just..." He faltered. 

There was an undercurrent moving through the crowd. Would they let him speak? Lucifer's words had brought down almost a third of all Heaven. Would they let another speak? Aziraphale didn't know if he had the courage to listen, but he could not turn away. 

Michael took the stage, hand outstretched towards the nervous crowd. 

"Don't be afraid," she said, "His words cannot corrupt the righteous. We will let him speak." 

The host murmured. Michael turned to the prisoner. "We promised you a trial. You will be judged by you peers." 

"And how will judgement be decided?" 

Michael smiled. It was a smile that would echo in steel traps through the ages. "Convince one righteous angel to speak for you. You don't need to convince the entire host. Just one."

_"I used to have this fantasy, you know," Crowley said six thousand years later, "when I met you. You'd… you'd told me about the sword and all. About how you gave it away. I used to think 'this one, this one's different.' I used to think that if you'd been there that day I could have convinced you. Stupid. Really stupid."_

_"Crowley..."_

_"It's alright. I just didn't say the right thing, that's all." He sniffed. His body moved carelessly around the room, self-depreciation lined his shoulders. And it would have been so easy to let the moment slip carelessly by. Aziraphale steeled himself against the temptation because he did care, and this had gone on long enough._

The prisoner saw the trap for what it was, Aziraphale could tell. It wasin his posture and the way he looked over the crowd. The host was hostile and terrified and desperate to scourge itself clean, to rid itself of any stain. Aziraphale was impressed that the prisoner knew all of this and yet managed to stand straighter still, and spoke.

"I asked for Mercy for our brethren."

Outrage and fear rolled through the crowd like a wave. The prisoner had to raise his voice to be heard.

"The War is over. We won. But that doesn't mean we can't be merciful in that victory. They were wrong. I'm not saying they weren't. I'm just asking if it isn't... if there isn't room to be merciful? Could we not find a way to show them they were wrong? To make them understand and bring them home? I just.. I can smell them burning! And I can't…" he beseeched.

His desperate eyes scanned the masses and seemed to find Aziraphale's before moving on. "Punish them, by all means. But unforgivable? Never to come home? Can't ..."

The crowd drowned him out. It had turned into a single, writhing hateful creature called Heaven. Unforgiving, fear turned to hate and hate to condemnation. And outside, separate to that creature, was the prisoner. And Aziraphale.

 _Mercy_. It rang like a bell in his heart. He hadn't been able to stand the sound of the fallen. And to never be forgiven? _Mercy_. Then fear clamped down on that thought, smothered and devoured it. It wasn't the same fear as the crowd, that there was a shadow amongst them, but a fear that he was that shadow. Whatever taint that marred the prisoner lived in him too. And Aziraphale was afraid.

Angels should be righteous. They were Moral. They were certain.

Doubting God had led to the Fall.

The dread that has wrapped itself around Aziraphale's heart since the beginning took shape.

It had a name.

Doubt.


	2. Hell is here

Crowley hadn't needed to convince the host of Heaven this time, just one little boy.

Last time it hadn't worked, he hadn't managed to raise a single voice in his defence. There is a brief, horrifying moment where the memory threatened to overwhelm him, choke the words from his throat, before he realises that it is just one boy.

And he is not alone.

_You can come back to my place if you like._

_I don't think my side would like that very much._

Aziraphale had never been in Crowley's flat before. Crowley aimed for cool nonchalance, but was aware of every movement Aziraphale made. He had to stop himself from justifying everything, explaining the shell of his life. Crowley forced himself to be quiet and still; he resisted the urge to mark every space the angel's eyes lingered. 

He was tired and strung out, too full of adrenaline to sleep and Aziraphale was _there in his flat_. The wine bottle gave his hands something to do. He fetched them a couple of glasses because that's what people do when they have guests, isn't it?

Crowley found his friend standing in his hallway in front of one of his sculptures.

"Got it in Florence," Crowley said, handing Aziraphale a glass, "I had the bloke do the wings and hair."

He didn’t say, "It's us. I got it to remind myself you were the enemy."

Aziraphale half turned to him and raised an eyebrow, almost playfully. Crowley considered himself something of an expert in the angel's expressions but it took him a moment to read him.

When he did it was a doozy. Crowley was flooded with the same joy and surprise he felt when Aziraphale told him he gave the bloody flaming sword away way back in the beginning. He was certain his face had forgotten six millennia of careful control and was pulling the same expression as well.

"Aziraphale, you dirty bitch," he smiled so hard his cheeks hurt, "they're wrestling!"

Aziraphale's face dissolved in a fit of childish giggles, and Crowley laughed with him. There was an edge of barely contained hysteria to it: they'dbeen through too much the last few days and it wasn’t over yet. But Crowley couldn’t talk about that, not yet 

Instead they wandered around the flat as Crowley tried not to explain and excuse his life. Crowley failed at that, unable to let his home speak for itself without his guided interpretation. Aziraphale listened with gentle responses until they got to the atrium. 

"Oh, Crowley," he said, breathless with wonder, "they're magnificent!"

Crowley couldn’t respond, couldn’t justify this. His plants seemed to know that this was their time to shine, this was what all the hard work and terror has led them to and they put on the show of their lives. They knew their lives depended on it. Crowley didn’t have to threaten them, they knew. Despite the late hour even the flowers were in bloom.

Aziraphale moved through the space softly, uttering endearments to the plants. He touched the leaves with soft and gentle hands. Crowley wasproud of them and didn’t glare for once. They'd earned this and, anyway, Crowley was too distracted with the sight of his angel in his garden. The look Aziraphale gave him as they reached the other side made him feel a warmth inside he coveted. He would happily give his soul for that smile but knew it would never be asked of him. 

Then Aziraphale was in his office and damn, bloody, fucking, fuck he'd forgotten about Ligur.

Aziraphale was looking at the black, gelatinous mess on the floor with bits of red plastic sticking out. It smelled like death.

"What is that?"

Crowley ran his hand over his face. "Ligur. What's left of him anyway. He was a demon."

Aziraphale looked at him, distress etched around his expressive eyes. “Hell sent him to get you?"

"Yeah, I got him first though. Holy water." He tried for casual cool. "See? Came in handy after all." 

Crowley had watched the tower of Babel fall. It hadn't tumbled as much as collapse into itself. He saw the same thing happen to the angel in front of him. 

Aziraphale barely moved, but whatever structures had been supporting him weakened and collapsed. The change was nearly imperceptible, but Crowley had known the angel for too long to miss even those slight movements. Aziraphale’s chest sank just slightly and his shoulders slumped. Crowley rushed forward to hold him by the shoulders before he crumbled to dust.

Choose your faces wisely.

Crowley had been unwilling to let him go. Aziraphale had no idea how long he held him in that cold, dark office of his. He'd been so overwhelmed with terror that his brain stopped working properly. Six thousand years of the same fear, always existing in abstract but now each second brought it ever closer to actually happening. 

They know and they are coming for us. 

Eventually, and ever gently, Crowley brought him back to his sitting room and a sofa that, despite looking more stylish than comfortable, but was surprisingly soft. Everything about Crowley was a facade, all style and sharp edges. But underneath was always better. Aziraphale had always been the opposite. He looked like the good one, but underneath... 

He deserved this. Crowley deserved better. And that had always been the crux of it.

Crowley had taken the punishment for both of them. One angel fell instead of two and Crowley never knew he carried them both. 

Crowley settled himself on the sofa, wedging himself next to the armrest with one long leg along the seat and the other off the edge. He coaxed Aziraphale down between them and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close against his chest. 

They never did this. Comfort had always been in words and looks. In shared company, food and wine, but never, ever touch. Aziraphale had never been this physically close to anyone. There had been that gentlemen’s club once, but the joining of arms in dance in no way compared to the comfort and intimacy of this. The heat of him against his back was a luxury he didn't deserve and he longed to dissolve himself, until they were one creature.

Crowley was talking softly to him. "We'll be alright, you'll see. We'll figure something out. We're clever, you and me, we'll figure it out. We're in this together."

Sweet nothings. Heaven and Hell were bound to deal with them separately. They would not be together. 

Sometimes humans made each other watch. Aziraphale had seen it happen too many times; this one would fall in love with someone from a different tribe. That one had the wrong colour skin. These are too different, these are too similar. These households, both alike in dignity... he'd hated that play with every fiber of his being.

He'd hated every life lost because of love, every miracle he couldn't perform to keep them together. It happened over and over, and it didn't seem to matter what time period or culture they were in, Aziraphale was doomed to watch the same story play out over and over. His own special Hell for the angel who was meant to fall but didn't.

And now it was time for them to play their parts. 

Choose your faces.

Aziraphale never had the courage to wear Crowley's face, to be as open and honest with his thoughts and feelings as Crowley had always been with him. Instead he told him he was bad, evil, a demon. And Crowley could be all those things except truly evil, and Aziraphale's traitorous face and body would soften all his dutiful words with a smile or a look. Hands open when they should be clenched into fists.

Even when the demon had him pinned to the wall of the former convent in Tadfield a few days ago he hadn't been able to stop his body betraying them both. 

I am not afraid of your evil. You will not hurt me. I am afraid of your good. He'd had tof stop himself from smiling then, which would have made matters worse.

Nice, indeed.

Aziraphale did not deserve Crowley's niceness. The sweet words of comfort now being whispered in his ears. The warmth at his back or the gentle, hesitant fingers that stroked his sides. He didn't deserve to be held like this in his final hours.

Because Crowley was the one who would suffer most. Heaven would be cold, efficient and deadly, Aziraphale was sure. But Hell was a different matter. Like him, Crowley would die, but Hell was a place of torture and torment, wasn't it? It was always Crowley that had taken the greater risk.

The only time they had ever discussed that, even indirectly, was that day in St James' Park when Crowley had asked him for the Holy Water. Aziraphale still shied away from the memory and from the rift that had come of it. 

Aziraphale had been selfish and afraid. Crowley assumed the greater risk; he always had, but never talked about it. And this, asking outright for a weapon was an acknowledgement that Aziraphale couldn't stand. 

And it had been too dangerous. A drop would have ended him and Aziraphale would have been left alone. Better a world where Crowley was in it and resented him but still lived than one without him at all. Better that than being properly alone.

But Aziraphale could only fool himself for so long, regardless of how well he fooled Heaven. He'd spent the intervening years with humans, humans most like them in that they risked everything to be with the person they cared about. The men in Portland Place, his friend Oscar. And the terrible, terrible price they paid for courage Aziraphale didn't dare show.

Crowley took the greater share of the risk. The stupid, idiotic heist plan finally spurred Aziraphale into action. He'd filled the flask and wiped it down, careful that not a single bead of moisture remained on the outside. And he spoke with as much courage as he dared. 

I want to be with you. I am like you. But I can't. I'm not brave like you, rushing head first into danger. I am cautious. I have to be, for both of us.

You go to fast for me.

You'll kill us both.

Don't look so disappointed, you'll break my heart.

It hadn't mattered. Saving the world was a consolation of sorts, he supposed.

Aziraphale wished he had Crowley's courage here at the end. He should have been the one offering comfort. Instead he was taking, taking as he always had Crowley's love and patience, always too afraid to give it back. He was the one that deserved punishment. Crowley had already taken punishment enough for both of them.

I would wear your face. I would take whatever torture they have planned for you. I...

Oh.

OH.

Perhaps that witch had seen a future where an angel could redeem himself. A future where he could finally do the right thing and spare his friend the worst of it.

Death by Heaven's hand would be cold and efficient. Crowley would die, but he would not suffer. Aziraphale would take the torments of Hell, a suffering he was long due. He'd have to lie, to convince Crowley that everything would be ok, that Agnes prophecy meant they might live.

One last betrayal. But it was the least he could do


	3. History

One of the unexpected positives to come out of the aborted apocalypse was Aziraphale's friendship with Madame Tracy. While Crowley didn't make a habit of human friendships, which inevitably ended in tragedy or at the very least awkward questions about why he didn't age, both he and Aziraphale occasionally found themselves drawn to one human or other despite good sense.

This one had its own pros and cons. Pro: Tracy already knew about Angels and Demons, and as such Aziraphale could be more open with her than he had been with another human in a very long time. Con: Crowley reminded him that Tracy was already old, and the inevitable end was likely to come sooner rather than later, so why bother. But he had to admit a certain amusement from seeing Aziraphale on the phone with her. He liked seeing the way Aziraphale's eyes would crinkle as he smiled. Crowley enjoyed the absolute bitchy tone Aziraphale adopted when listening and responding to gossip. He especially enjoyed the mock scandalized look Aziraphale got when Tracy said something saucy, and the absolute, unexpected and shocking pleasure of hearing Aziraphale answer back with something saucy in kind. Never obscene, but towing a very fine line that made something in Crowley leap.

It occurred to him that he would love to hear Aziraphale swear. He hadn't yet. 

Aziraphale was on the phone when Crowley entered the bookshop before lunch. He could tell who it was on the other end by the angel’sposture, less formal than usual with a slight tilt of the head and one hand waving expressively as he talked.

"Sorry? No, not a customer, just Crowley."

"When did I become "just Crowley"? I'll have you know I'm not "just" anything." Crowley mock pouted, then smiled and waved them off at Aziraphale's pointed eyebrow. The angel could say a lot with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips, some of which he was too polite to ever say out loud. 

_Everything is fine_. Crowley didn't have a hole in his chest where his heart should have been. _Everything is tickety-boo._

Crowley amused himself, knowing from past experience that phone calls like this could go on for half an hour or more. He'd occasionally pick up a book and scan a few lines before the text started to blur together before his eyes. Crowley hated his eyes, had always hated them, how they robbed him of colours he could still remember, how they burned in the light. They were a reminder that no one had spoken for him. 

Aziraphale had not spoken for him. 

Intellectually it shouldn't have made a difference. Aziraphale had never actually claimed not to have been there, and it was his own stupid, foolish fantasy that things would have gone differently if the angel had been. Crowley hadn't realised how much that fantasy had underpinned his relationship to Aziraphale. Like a castle built on sand. 

_Stupid. His own fault._

The chatter in the background was irritating. "…she most certainly did not!? Well, you tell her..." 

Up to the flat then to poke things and waste time. That's what Crowley did, poke things. Wounds that would otherwise have healed, questions best left unasked. He had known something was wrong in the weeks after they'd made their switch. Another fantasy, that. Believing that everything would be fine without Heaven and Hell on their backs. But it wasn't and he poked where he shouldn't have poked.

_Talk to me, Aziraphale._

And like all of his most magnificent schemes, this one came back to bite him on the arse.

Crowley insinuated himself in all of Aziraphale's spaces. Opened his cupboards, peeked in his refrigerator, that sort of thing. Aziraphale knew he did it, but hadn't said anything. They hadn't talked about pretty much anything properly since Aziraphale told him about the trial. He wondered if they'd ever talked about anything properly ever. Aziraphale, whose face shone with an open light, had hidden so much from him.

So Crowley invaded Aziraphale's flat while the angel nattered away downstairs. He ran his fingers over the inside of his bathtub and imagined it filled with holy water.

Crowley opened cupboards and looked under the bed. If Aziraphale ever did ask him about it he couldn't answer. It's not like there was anything to find in these spaces.

_Is this where you kept your fear all this time? The wardrobe right here? Is this where the answers are? The thing that will fix us? By the mayonnaise in the fridge?_

Frustrated with himself, Crowley made his way back down stairs. He had assumed, by the lack of outraged exclamations that the phone call had ended. Instead he heard Aziraphale talking in a quieter voice, so as not to be heard. Crowley miracled the sound of his own footsteps upstairs.

"...not sure if that sort of thing would help us, to be honest (pause) Oh, I understand you don't necessarily mean sex. Intimacy... I don't know if he'd want it even if I was…capable. (Pause) It's bit like drowning, and I don't ever think I'll find my way to land."

Crowley didn't need to see his face to know that look; he'd worn it himself more years than he'd care to count. Drowning. And the water rushing in his ears sounded a lot like you go to fast for me, Crowley. He had seen people drown when he'd been on the unsinkable ship, seen them take down those who tried to save them too. That was what it was like with him and Aziraphale; he'd have been better off leaving him well alone, but still came back grasping every time the angel had pushed him down. He hadn't known Aziraphale had been drowning too.

"Anyway, we're not going to solve my problems over the phone, certainly not with him upstairs," Aziraphale's voice then returned to its normal volume, "So are you going to tell me this news of yours or not?"

Crowley closed his eyes. 

_Everything is fine. Tickety-fucking-boo._

"Oh! I suppose a congratulations is in order! Although I do have to ask, are you sure? (pause) Well, yes, I suppose I am one to talk, considering." Aziraphale raised his voice to call out to the demon he thought was still upstairs. "Crowley? We've been invited to a wedding!"

Crowley threw his voice further up the stairs. Useful skill he never regretted learning. "A what!?" An appropriate few moments later he took the last few steps.

"Tracy has taken complete leave of her senses and decided to marry Shadwell." Aziraphale's expression of amused incredulity mirrored his own.

"Shadwell? Our Shadwell? Witchfinder Sargent ‘nine-sugars-isn’t-vomit-inducing’ Shadwell?" Crowley asked, "But Tracy seems like a nice, normal person?"

Aziraphale smiled one of his soft, supernova smiles at him. "We don't always get to choose who we love." Crowley wanted to tear him apart and keep him safe all once. This wasn't fair.

Then Aziraphale switched back to his conversation "Oh! Will the wedding be in a Church? A chapel? I do apologise, but we will have to meet you at the reception then. Yes, because he's a demon, yes even still. We look forward to hearing all about it at the reception. No, don't apologise, it's not like you have all that much experience with demons after all." He laughed then at something Tracy said, turning towards him am meeting his eyes to share the humour. Crowley smiled weakly in return.

Crowley didn't bother listening to the rest ofthe conversation. Details of the upcoming wedding. A promise to attend. Goodbyes. Finally Aziraphale was off the phone. 

"Lunch?"

"Lunch." 

Lunch was a cafe in the no man’s land between Marylebone and Soho proper.Usually they were able to effortlessly talk about nothing of significance borne out of years of practice, Crowley struggled to keep up his end of the conversation and Aziraphale's self-conscious prattle withered and died several times. They sat in silence for a while as Aziraphale nibbled around the edges of his petit fours. 

"We're not far from Portland Place, or what was Portland Place back then, I think they call it something else now, you know." Aziraphale said, his was light but had a distinct difference from the previous pretense at conversation. Crowley paid attention.

"Is that the place you learned to dance in? The brothel?"

Aziraphale's jaw dropped open, nobody did outrage quite like Aziraphale outside of pantomime. Crowley hoped that his glasses had been enough to hide his amusement. "It most certainly was not a brothel! It was a discreet and exclusive gentlemen's club..." 

"…Where staff weren't allowed to turn down member's advances. And with lots of little discreet rooms you could retire to." Crowley let his amusement show in the rest of his face. They'd never said more than a few words about the place before, but he had looked it up and been equal parts fascinated and bewildered. Aziraphale, to the best of his knowledge, had never shown any interest in having sex with anyone and there were certainly other establishments to learn to dance.

Aziraphale flustered about a bit before giving out a long sigh. "Well, that all had nothing to do with me." Crowley grinned at his friend's discomfort. "You were asleep," Aziraphale said quietly.

He had been. They'd had that stupid argument about the Holy Water in the park and Crowley had decided to take a long overdue and well deserved nap. Aziraphale had apparently responded by putting on his dancing shoes and joining a club more notorious than famous.

"You were asleep," Aziraphale said quietly, "and I was trying to understand why I felt the way I did about it. I was very confused, and very, very afraid."

"From what you tell me, you've felt that way since forever." 

Aziraphale shot him an unreadable look. Crowley bit his tongue, torn between wanting to know and knowing how badly that worked out last time. Aziraphale continued regardless.

"I had a lot to think about. The idea of you doing yourself harm was more than I could bear. It would mean being alone, really truly alone. And the reminder of what Hell would do to you, the ever-present shadow of what Heaven would do to me. Well, it wasn't the best of times. But some fellows I knew through the bookshop were going and I really did go for the dancing lessons, you know."

Crowley could imagine that, Aziraphale thinking he was heading out for a nice evening out, with maybe a bit of dancing and wandering into a club where half the men were dressed as women and young soldiers were traded like currency. The thing with Aziraphale was that, being as he was, people tended to make assumptions. "Did you know what the place was when you went the first time?"

"Not really," Aziraphale smiled, sheepish, "I knew it was for inverts, but not the extent of it. I kept going because; well, because they reminded me of you."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. Sure, he'd been on the edges of some debauchery in his time, but didn't really think that was how Aziraphale thought of him. 

"They were so brave, Crowley, how could I not think of you? You are yourself, even when everyone around you tells you that you are wrong. You risked everything time and again to approach me, to be my friend." 

"Risks we both took. I wasn't alone in this dance." 

"My part was complicated by the fact that I had already betrayed you. I did not deserve your company, or your friendship. But that isn't the point I'm making." Crowley didn't know how he felt about that. He couldn't, wouldn't absolve Aziraphale of that burden, but at the same time wanted them both to be past it. Aziraphale returned to the point he was making, while Crowley filed these feelings under a mental file deep inside him with the words "too fast" scrawled on the front.

"In their own way they were like us; they risked absolutely everything. Their jobs, their families, their position. And the law was very much against them at the time, not like it is now. And yet they were so very brave. They were frightened, some of them, but they went anyway. They made a space for themselves where they could be themselves. Where they could find love, find someone like them and be happy, if only for a short while."

"And how did that work out for them, then?" Crowley tried and almost succeeded in keeping the bitterness out of his voice. 

"Most went about with very different public lives. Some were arrested, eventually. Some died. One of the younger fellows became quite prominent in the gay rights movement in his later years." Aziraphale said, "And much like myself I suppose, some spent their whole lives waiting for the axe to fall."

But the axe did fall, had fallen. And they were here and alive and everything was supposed to be fine and wasn't.

Crowley's mouth set. He'd known people like Aziraphale's discreet gentleman, although somewhat less gentlemanly. "I went to a Molly house in, what was it? Seventeen twenty-something. Mother Claps. Official business - a young musician who was apparently of interest to your lot needed to be tempted towards a life of drunkenness instead. It was cleaner than most, and not actually a brothel, although there were plenty of rooms to take your 'husband' as they called it.

"Back then the coppers would crack down on the prossies every now and then, but they hated the mollys. Surprising how many coppers went undercover as husbands, letting themselves get buggered in the name of duty.

"That day I reckon there were about thirty odd blokes in the building. Most of them just going about their business, getting a drink. Being themselves. This musician was there with this other bloke, and you never saw two people look happier. It wasn't earth shattering, just love. Ordinary love. They weren't hurting anyone. They'd asked the man to play, boy really, and he gets handed a fiddle and plays. I knew why your lot wanted him then, you've never heard anything sweeter, except when his love started singing. You would have liked it, angel. Your angelic heart would have exploded with it. I know you."

He remembered the dim light of the room softening the wood and stone. It was a coffee house under the proprietress' residence, and the serving girls had to run to a nearby tavern to fetch alcohol if that was what you were after. It was one of those places where it felt like everyone was family, even if they went home as strangers. He'd thought of Aziraphale then too, except it was below the angel's preferred social class. If it hadn't been, it would have been a good place to meet for a few drinks.

"The raid was terrifying, angel, a dozen coppers through the door and several more already inside, they'd stalked the place already. And everyone trying to run. I didn't know those men, but some of them had respectable jobs and wives. Like your Portland Club. 

"Too many people in too small of a space, and not enough exits. Like a stampede. Thirty people's a lot in a small space. I made a door out the back where there hadn't been one before, somewhere for people to go. 

"Some of the men were arrested. A few of them hanged. They weren't doing anything wrong. No mercy for them. There wouldn't be any mercy for us either. It's what got me thinking about the Holy Water."

 _One of the men was hanged on the testimony of his lover._ Crowley didn't, couldn't say that. He chewed his tongue and didn't think of himself and Aziraphale and his own damn trial.

Aziraphale's hand hovered by his, not quite touching. "I'm sorry that happened to you Crowley."

Crowley shrugged. "I'm sorry it happened to them. But it did. And now there are bloody parades and nobody looks twice if you say you have a husband instead of a wife. They moved on, angel! They didn't go away and they didn't keep hiding, and they fought for the right to move on." 

"Do you really believe that Heaven and Hell will let us?" 

Crowley leaned forward, letting his irritation bubble up. "Will you? For Chri- for fuck’s sake, you couldn't have asked for better. You didn't Fall. You figured out Agnes Nutter's swap. You got off free and easy but you act like you want to be punished!"

"You didn't get off 'free and easy', you fell!"

"My problem, not yours"

"And I didn't figure out the swap."

"What?" 

Aziraphale looked at his hands. Around them the people in the cafe laughed, and ate and breathed and drank their coffee, all while he and Aziraphale became a universe of their own in the centre of it all.

"I didn't figure out the swap, or at least I thought it meant something different," Aziraphale did not look at him. "I didn't lie to you. I just…led you to believe I thought she'd seen a more favourable outcome."

Crowley swallowed. "And what 'outcome' did you think she saw?"

"Redemption," Aziraphale replied, "I thought she had seen a way for me to finally take the greater fall. Heaven would have made it quick. They may have even spared you, but Hell was always to be worse. You Fell when we both should have. You suffered when I should have shared your suffering. It was time for me to step up and take my share."

Crowley's skin was too tight, his joints cracked with lightning and a great, inarticulate and roaring thunder rumbled in his chest. White light crashed behind his eyes. He did not look at Aziraphale. He couldn't. 

Instead he stood and walked out of the cafe. He barely even heard Aziraphale calling after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The raid on Mother Claps coffee house actually happened and you can still read court transcripts online. 
> 
> In regards to the naming of Portland Place and the Hundred Guineas Club - it seems where the club was likely located had been named, although Portland Place still exists in Soho - someone who has more information on the changes to the streets feel free to leave a comment if I'm wrong.


	4. All demons dance

It wasn't what you'd call good dancing.

* * *

Demons dance in Hell. It's not like some awful musical, where characters burst into song and dance rather than engage in perfectly serviceable conversation. But it wasn't exactly planned either. It happened in the way a storm breaks, with a slow and cumulous buildup. The stress, the anger, the incommunicable pressure. There's no announcement, but everyone feels it. 

Then the demons dance, all of them moving out of synch and to the cacophony of drums and screams that each one hears differently. They dance in a way that is rough and raw. 

And it isn't good. 

Every nightclub is an echo of Hell. The acrid smell of bodies and smoke always, always has a hint of sulpher. The best left unidentified sticky something on the floor feels sickeningly familiar to a demon's feet. The state of the toilets is exactly the same. Exactly the same.

Crowley was not homesick for Hell. Hell had never, ever been home to him. And yet when things got too much and everything built up to the point where he wanted to scream until his throat bled, he found himself here, in one of Hell's mirror universes.

He was a demon after all.

The Hole In The World, or just The Hole if you weren't a total wanker, hit its peak in the late 80's and their only concession to the passage of time was the occasional track by Placebo and Rasputina that made it into the rotation. This was the home of The Cure, Sisters of Mercy and Bauhous. This was the club, the very place where Goth was born. And not the moody teenage shite you get nowdays. 

Crowley had been there when it was cool. He kept going, every now and then, when it passed beyond cool and into cliché. He'd shown his face there when it came out the other side to become a pastiche, bitterly ironic like the taste of tinfoil.

Crowley danced. It wasn't what you'd call good dancing. 

_Precious and fragile things_

_Need special handling_

He writhed against bodies young and old and neither and both, he danced with male and female and neither and both. It was either that or scream. 

_But words left unspoken_

_Left us so brittle_

_There was so little left to give_

Crowley might have been there for hours or even days. He didn't know anymore. Demons dance, all of them moving out of synch and to the cacophony of drums and screams that for Crowley all sounded like the damn song on repeat. He didn't even like Depeche Mode.

_Angels with silver wings_

_Shouldn't know suffering_

_I wish I could take the pain for you_

Reeeal subtle. His own special Hell, so to speak. He was the screwed up one, wasn't he? Too needy, too terrified of affection. Crowley had been rejected by Heaven and Hell both now. He'd been rejected by Aziraphale time and time and time again. 

_Things get damaged_

_Things get broken_

_I thought we'd manage_

Aziraphale. Everything always came back him, didn't it? But Angels with silver wings apparently knew suffering after all. Aziraphale, who had expected to be tortured in Hell for him. Crowley didn't know how to process that. And he didn't know how to fix it.

The girl he'd been dancing with was saying something that he couldn't hear over the clashing music inside and outside of his head. Then he was being dragged across the dancefloor to the door that opened into a courtyard, a narrow alley that was the only fresh air in the place. 

The characters in the alley never seemed to change over the years, although the incidence of heroin overdose had gone down in recent years. Groups of smokers and non-smokers completed for clove soaked air that wasn't fresh, but bloody hell it was cold compared to the dance floor.

It cleared his head. As the heavy glass door behind them the music din in his head separated. He firmly told Depeche Mode to fuck the fuck off and leave him alone for a bit. 

_We always try to share_

_The tenderest of care_

Piss off. 

"What did you say?" The girl looked even younger in the unflattering light of the courtyard. Back in the day girls like her would be dyed black and smokey-eyed, but she had natural frizzy brown hair and wore more glitter than kohl.

_Words left unspoken, left us so brittle._

"Nothing," he smiled. Too much teeth. But she wasn't looking, leading him by the hand to a knot of people halfway down the alley. 

Like the girl who led him there, they didn't have a single unifying style that one would expect from a place like this if it were shown in a movie. In cinema they'd all be in a uniform of fishnet and black, but the reality was a lot more interesting. Certainly the style was dark, but there were flashes of neon, pastels, and sparkle. He was amused by the glitter, one of his after all.

Aziraphale loved humanity in an abstract way. Crowley loved and hated humanity for what it actually was. They were his misfit children. 

As they cut through Crowley caught snatches of conversations in all of London's collected accents.

"I don't get why she has to be sick, you know, after everything she's already been through... Paul you always get like this when you've been drinking... _hope it's your eyes He's seeing through_ ...an' she hates bein' wi' me so she does stupid shite like...you ever just think you'd be better off just leaving it all and starting again... _I wish I could take the pain for you_ ... It's self loathing is what that is, didja see..I just want someone to be nice for a change, why do I get all the... _I thought we'd manage_... it's not cheating using a mod when the rules are designed to make you fail, mate... Můžeme jít zpátky dovnitř. _.I pray you learn to trust have faith in both of us_ .. don't punish yourself luv, that's my job..."

Wait. What?

Crowley stopped. He thought the last part came from the couple with the neon dreadlocks, but with a crowd like this you couldn't be sure.

"Oh, I am so stupid" he said out loud. The girl leading him looked back at him.

"Sorry?" She said.

"Stupid, you know? The answers been staring me in the face the whole time." He took her by the shoulders, not even really taking in her confusion, "He's been waiting for the bleeding hammer to fall, but it hasn't so he's just been punishing himself because that's what he's like. Six thousand stupid years! Gos, she's a bitch, really knows how to grind a person down."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"And Hell, weeell they had no idea at all. And he was expecting the worst but didn't get it then either. Ineffable, my arse!" He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead risking a mouthful of glitter in the process, said a cheery " thanks" then turned to go home.

He wasn't stupid, he was brilliant. And this was a brilliant idea and it _was going to work._

But... Aziraphale.

Crowley hesitated with his hand on the door of the Bentley. Aziraphale wasn't the best at embracing new ideas, even if they were good ones. And this was a good one. Ok, he wasn't exactly an expert but the dots all connected. Crowley knew that, on occasion, he got an idea in his head and raced off without proper consideration. Too fast. And this wasn't something he could rush, not with stakes this high. A moment's hesitation stole his breath. This wasn't exactly something he was comfortable with, exactly, but he'd do whatever it took to help Aziraphale.

With something this important he had to approach it carefully. He had to do his research.

Hopefully Intimate Books was still open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading drop me a note in the comments section :)


	5. The book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the evolving situation with the tags and rating. This work is a true WIP in that I don't necessarily know what will happen next.

Aziraphale felt a momentary tightening in his throat as Crowley hesitated in the doorway, then, with a look of nervous determination walked inside.

That Crowley was nervous was plain even to someone who didn't know him as well as Aziraphale did. It had been a few days since Crowley had walked out of the cafe, and they hadn't spoken since.

"Do you need me to close the shop?" Aziraphale asked. There were a few customers milling about who would not be particularly missed. 

Crowley shook his head. "Nah, it can wait."

"Are you sure?" 

"Seriously, angel, it can wait."

Crowley took to one of the armchairs, his usual inglorious sprawl animated with nervous energy. Aziraphale noted the large black paper bag now resting against the leg of the armchair. Crowley must have brought it in with him. The tightness Aziraphale's throat headed down towards his chest. 

Aziraphale found it difficult to concentrate on his work, but kept himself firmly behind the solid oak counter and tried to make annotations in his stock book. He tried not to note Crowley's nervous energy, his small fluttering movements and constricted lines. Two of the customers left on their own after browsing for a few more minutes, but the last customer came to ask Aziraphale the price on a volume that was immediately inflated to a safe range. The man stayed far longer than Aziraphale would have liked and ended up paying the exorbitant asking pricef the leather bound Dickens. Usually Aziraphale would put more effort into preventing the sale but he just wanted the man to get out as quickly as possible.Aziraphale forced himself to be civil and polite. The man had no way of knowing that the proprietor of A. Z. Fell was suddenly in a rush to close up shop, though the short, clipped answers probably should have been a clue. Aziraphale miracled the sign to ‘closed’ and locked the door the second the gentleman finally left.

Crowley stood up slowly brought the black paper bag up to the counter. Ordinarily Aziraphale wouldn't keep the counter between them, and would instead go fetch a decanter, but he wasn't sure if 'ordinarily' applied to them anymore. 

He wasn't sure he had the breath to speak. Crowley placed the black bag on the counter like a bomb. Aziraphale made no move to open it. His curiosity was certainly peaked, but things between them had been so strained as of late that he couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what was inside. Curiosity would have moved his hand towards the bag, but fear and apprehension kept him still.

"Look, Aziraphale," Crowley said, obviously anxious. He put his hands on the counter, knuckles moving even if the fingers weren't quite tapping. "Look. 'm not angry, ok?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. Crowley tilted his head, acknowledging the blatant falsehood for what it was.

"Yeah, ok, I was. I'm still... but this isn't about that. I'm not doing this because I'm angry. That's important, the book says that's important."

Aziraphale looked at the black bag. _Book? And, more interestingly, one Crowley has apparently read._ Aziraphale knew that something about the demons eyes made it difficult to read for long periods of time, but he'd been too polite to ask after the specifics.

Curiosity peaked, Aziraphale reached towards the black bag, to the book that was apparently inside. Crowley placed his hand over the top, stopping him. 

"I need to say this first. You've got some things going on, obviously. And yeah I was angry, but mostly I just want to help. Let me help you."

Aziraphale met his eyes then. He tried to show his thanks in a look. He knew that he was broken, had been broken for a long, long time, and still his friend was there for him. 

_Thank you for not abandoning me, even though I have hurt you so many times._

Aziraphale slid out the book. 

They both froze. The dust motes that drifted through the air and the very faint breaths coming from both of them were the only signs that time itself hadn't stopped.

"Crowley…"

The word broke the spell. Crowley reached one hand behind his own head and let out a huff.

"Do you know what it stands for? I know you don't... indulge in…ah" Crowley's discomfort was palpable. Aziraphale didn't feel entirely sympathetic. 

"Yes, I know what it means, Crowley" Aziraphale's voice came as more of a snap than he'd intended. "I have a copy of De Sade's 'Justine' right over there."

Crowley looked miserable. He resolutely avoided looking at Aziraphale or the book. " 's not a sex thing. I just want to help."

Aziraphale swallowed. "And how, exactly, do you believe The Big Book of BDSM is going to help?" He tried to make his voice soft and kind, but couldn't seem to get the hard metallic pang of panic out of it entirely. 

The coiled tension in Crowley sprung. He pushed himself away from the countertop. "You want to be punished Aziraphale. By Heaven, Hell...by me. No, as far as I'm concerned Heaven and Hell have had their chance and you still don't think it’s enough. So that leaves me."

"You're not a sadist, Crowley.” Aziraphale said softly. That it was so far from Crowley's nature and yet here he was offering himself. 

"Yeah, not really my scene. But it doesn't matter, don't you see? You trust me. And I'm not angry, not really, and if it helps then I don't mind."

Aziraphale rested his fingertip on the glossy cover and entertained the idea for a moment. There was something there, a dark promise. And perhaps he could find something he needed in submitting to Crowley. He imagined it, just briefly; he saw himself braced against the wall feeling his guilt scourged away. There'd be pain, yes, but Aziraphale thought he might be able to take it. 

But after...

Crowley would forgive him. Perhaps he already had. But Aziraphale was not ready to be forgiven. Crowley would want affection, of course he would. There was no way Crowley could do something like that to him without being wanting to take care of him, his way of proving to himself he was not a monster. 

"I'm so sorry," he said, gently pushing the book aside. 

"Aargh!" Crowley threw his head back and groaned, "Just tell me what you want me to do, because I'm trying, here!"

It was as it has always been, with Crowley reaching out and Aziraphale falling so very far behind, weighed so heavy he was barely able to move.

"We're not meant to be each other's penance, my darling."

Crowley's barking laugh startled him, although it shouldn't have.

"Angel, where have _you been_?"


	6. Red light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: potential triggering content ahead.

The light on his answering machine had blinked red.

Blink

Blink

_Crowley, I... I read the book._

Blink

Blink

_I may have been too rash in dismissing the idea._

Blink

Blink

_What I mean is that...there may be some merit.._

Blink

_I've made some notes, you see and…_

Blink

_This isn't exactly easy to discuss with a machine. Could you drop by?_

Blink.

Crowley listened to it half a dozen times before deleting the message.

The book sat on Aziraphale's counter more or less where he left it. It bristled with coloured sticky-notes. Crowley had seen a documentary once that had been all about how different animals use colour to warn potential predators that they were poisonous. Next to the book was a letter addressed to him and Aziraphale both.

Aziraphale was there too, but Crowley wasn't ready to look at him yet. Instead he picked up the letter to find an invitation.

“So who's Marjorie Potts, then?”

Aziraphale had obviously been bracing for the... interesting... conversation and the question about the invitation seemed to take a little wind out of his sails. He fluttered in that way that Crowley usually found endearing, but today reminded him of a trapped animal.

“Tracey,” Aziraphale replied, “different names for different occasions. You know how it is.”

Yeah, he did. Crowley was good a creating masks, characters that would be whatever the situation required. One costume after another until he wore so many layers he wasn't sure who he was underneath them all, or even if there was anyone there at all.

_That's how I'll do this, then. Be what he needs._

Shadwell didn't seem to have a first name. Just 'Sargent'.

“So that's coming up soon then?” He put the invitation down next to the book. Crowley had read the damned thing through, at the painstaking pace his wretched eyes had allowed, but Aziraphale had really gone to town on it. He should have known; Aziraphale would read anything that stayed still for long enough, and the whole thing _had_ been Crowley's idea after all. But it had seemed like such a definite 'no' that Crowley had pushed the idea aside until the blinking red light told him it wasn't all over and done with after all.

“Yes, it is.” Aziraphale answered slowly. They were both dancing around, not quite meeting each other's eye. Crowley said nothing, taking the time to try and figure out exactly who he was meant to be in this situation, not wanting to go _too fast_ and waiting, always waiting, for Aziraphale to take the lead. Eventually Aziraphale seemed to realise that this was his dance, and with visible effort, collected himself to speak with cheery professionalism.

_So that's how we're going to play this. Ok._

“Shall we get on with it?” Aziraphale gestured to the armchairs and two cups of tea in their usual mugs. Crowley's eyebrows shot up and Aziraphale flushed slightly. “I mean setting the terms! Not actually the 'it' ...of...it.”

No, of course not. Crowley was more than spiteful enough to be glad he wasn't the only one off kilter.

They sat and Aziraphale picked up a notepad and pen from the side table. Crowley wondered how long Aziraphale had spent fussing with the notepad and tea set, waiting for him to show up. The tea that could have been sitting there for hours, miracled to keep steaming as if freshly poured. He didn't touch the cup, the steam reminded him momentarily of smoke and he made a conscious effort to remind himself again that this had been his idea. This would fix them. It had to.

The notepad and pen helped Aziraphale return to his polite professionalism, as though he was discussing a sales contract with a customer. Efficient. Crowley could do 'detached professional' Anthony J, The Consultant.

“Terms.” Aziraphale said, “We need to set our boundaries. The book was very clear about that. I assume we both have definite boundaries we do not wish to cross and I think it best if we have those very clearly stated beforehand.”

Crowley had read that too. They'd never defined their friendship, not even _as_ friendship until recently. They had never been good at staying in the lines.

“I don't want to have sex with you.”

Crowley nodded. That wasn't exactly a surprise, especially in this context. “You need to be more specific,” he said, “Define sex for you.”

Aziraphale looked at him for the first time since he entered the bookstore. His eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly but Crowley still couldn't quite read his expression. He knew his own face gave nothing away. Detached professional.

Aziraphale nodded, clearly thinking it through. “Very well, I don't want any penetration. And I don't want you to touch my genitalia. Or ask me to touch myself.”

“And mine?” Crowley asked for clarification, not that he had been planning anything of the sort. There was a tightness in his chest that he ignored.

Aziraphale faltered again, not that anyone other than Crowley would have ever caught it. He tampered down the impulse to push, like to impulse that kept him poking at wounds that wouldn't quite heal. _Control yourself._

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale said, to Crowley's surprise, “I expect it might be effective to ask certain things of me. I just don't want anything done to me in return.”

Crowley locked up his feelings tight, so not a single muscle of his face gave any indication that this bothered him at all. Control.

Aziraphale continued. “I don't believe this will be a problem for you, but I want to narrow the scope of activity to pain and... humiliation” and here he stumbled over the word, ”only. Nothing that involves, say” Aziraphale glanced at his notes and wrinkled his nose “excrement, or the like. This is about the wrongs I have done. Atonement.”

He looked up from his notes, but did not look Crowley in the eye. “Physically I believe I am most likely able to withstand more than most humans, so I shan't place any particular limitations on the methods you use to inflict pain, except to suggest we use the traffic light system to slow or halt proceedings if needed.”

Crowley barely heard the last part. He knows dozens of methods of inflicting pain, all devised by humans at their worst. He imagined Aziraphale in some of those positions and knew he'd let a crack form in his carefully composed exterior. Aziraphale looked concerned. Fuck, they hadn't even started yet and Crowley was already disappointing him. Of course Aziraphale wanted him to hurt him, he read the damn book, and it was his bloody idea! _Control. Your. Self._

Aziraphale was already backtracking. “I should have thought about that. I know what you've seen. I'm sorry...Perhaps this isn't a good idea...”

“No, it's fine.” He'd cope. He'd cope and they'd do this and Aziraphale would finally get over the shit that he couldn't let go of and they'd be really, properly free. But some things needed to be said first. “I'm not going to strip the flesh from your bones just to watch you bleed. This isn't what this is about.”

Crowley had his mask firmly in place, He knew his role. “I want to be very, very clear. This isn't some Angel vs Demon fantasy role-play. This isn't capture and torture.”

Crowley was good at pushing people's buttons; he always had been, usually for the worst. He knew exactly what his best weapons were against Aziraphale. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his glasses and folded them, placing them with exact care on the coffee table between them. Aziraphale did not look away. He never could when Crowley let him see his eyes. Good. This was the important bit.

“This is between you and me,” he said, voice low and rumbling, “you and me only. You will write a list of all the shit that lies between us so that you know exactly what you're being punished for. You will remember that you're not asking for God's forgiveness, you are asking for mine.”

Poor Aziraphale, his professional mask was gone completely. His eyes shone with unspent tears. “Yes.” then “please.”

Crowley up his glasses and headed towards the door.

“I'll be here at six” He did not look back.

_Lest I be turned to salt._

Aziraphale didn't look at him as he left, instead raised his hands to cover his face.

_Dear God, what am I doing?_

No, it was inappropriate, beyond inappropriate to pray. Crowley had been right, Heaven had their chance with him and, whatever else he was tired of waiting for that particular axe to fall. No, this would be between them, as it had to be. Crowley had brought the thrice-dammed book into his shop. But really, Crowley had only done what he ever did, provided the temptation. It was Aziraphale who had read it, then, when he couldn't get certain ideas out of his head, he'd read it again with a book a newly-purchased sticky-notes. He'd made careful annotations in his notepad and absolutely nothing, _nothing,_ had gone according to plan from that tortuous phone-call to whatever had just happened then.

He had imagined they would sit down and talk it through. He had one column of things he did not find appealing and another of ideas he though had merit. Aziraphale had thought they would talk it through and probably give it up as a bad idea. Or, if they had decided to go through with the foolish notion, that Crowley would provide his own column and... well...

He should have known that Crowley wouldn't follow the script. It wasn't in his nature and Aziraphale _knew_ that. Aziraphale was painfully aware that whatever measure of control he thought he had over the situation had well and truly slipped from his hands. Behind the panic there was a glimmer of something else in that. Something freeing. Come what may, Crowley would be here at six and Aziraphale would go along or turn him away.

Well, he could sit here and fret over it all, or he could do something productive. Crowley had asked him to write a list of everything he wanted to be forgiven for. That would not be comfortable, but it _was_ something to do. What was the purpose of this whole exercise if not to get him to face some uncomfortable truths?

He took a sip of the tea, focusing on the slightly tart taste of tea miracled hot, picked up his pen and notebook, and started to write.

It did not come easily. 

There were centuries that went faster than the hours leading to six pm. They had gone very long stretches of time without seeing each other, but nothing like these few hours. Aziraphale finished his list and tea both and had tried to do some work, but the thought of opening the shop was unbearable. Everything was unbearable. There wasn't enough air in his body. He couldn't sit still. 

He briefly considered ringing Crowley's mobile phone and calling the whole thing off.

_I'm so sorry dear, but we've made a terrible mistake. You won't mind if we duck out for a spot of dinner instead?_

But he didn't. For the same reason he read the book, the same reason he made the phone call. Aziraphale had felt like such a fraud for so very long, had been so worried about the dark creature, the demon, which lurked beneath his skin. He felt it move beneath his shell. _They cast the last Angel from Heaven and I should have gone with him_. Aziraphale wanted, desperately wanted to be clean and the idea that Crowley, Crowley of all creatures, might be able to strip away all that was rotten and foul about himself and let the light shine through the grime. _Take me apart so that I may be whole again._

And there was another fear under that, the fear that this would not work. That the whole thing would devolve into an embarrassing farce with him playing the naughty child. It filled him with embarrassment and shame. It was this that had him reaching for the telephone, but it was the look in Crowley's eyes that stayed his hand.

The demon had been careful about shielding his eyes ever since the Crucifixion. Aziraphale could count the number of times he had seen them uncovered since and it had taken an almost apocalypse to see them twice in the same century. Aziraphale was very aware of how deliberately Crowley had exposed himself this afternoon, and held tight to the twin promises he saw in them.

_I am taking this seriously._

_I will be the demon._

Aziraphale knew that he would do whatever was asked. That they had set something in motion that he would see through even if it destroyed him. There was no turning back. He paced the floor of his main room, list in hand, glancing down occasionally to look over the list again; his usual neat script was defaced with marks where he had changed his mind and tried to distil all his self-hatred into simple sentences. Somehow despite all his careful revisions he wasn't certain that it would ever be enough.

The bell on his door rang, pure and clear. Aziraphale stilled. All the remaining air fled. His heart was hammering. The last time he felt this way he'd been flanked by demons and led into Hell.

Crowley was dressed much as he had been this afternoon as far as Aziraphale could tell, except now he carried with him a black case. Aziraphale couldn't stop staring at it. It looked expensive and very new. He caught his breath and held it long enough to feel light headed and faint, a trick for a body that didn't technically need to breathe. Crowley's face, which Aziraphale was accustomed to reading despite the dark glasses, was more closed than usual. This was almost a stranger. But when he spoke it was with Crowley's familiar voice, a voice more familiar to Aziraphale than his own name.

“Be sure.”

Aziraphale nodded. 

“No,” Crowley said, “I want you to say it. Be sure.” 

“I am,” Aziraphale said. And he was. Come what may they would do this. 

Crowley nodded and led him back to the armchairs where they had drunk together and laughed together, where Aziraphale had confessed the awful truth about Crowley's first trial. Back when Aziraphale thought his carefully penned notes meant anything. He had assumed this would take place at Crowley's dark and austere flat, not the supposed comfort of his own space. None of that mattered now. It would be here.

Crowley placed his case on the coffee table. The matt leather was like a black hole, drawing in everything around it. Aziraphale could not look away.

“Did you write a list?” Crowley could have been asking what meal he wanted to order, his voice was so casual. As though they weren't about to do...this. Aziraphale still had the notebook in his hands and lifted it so Crowley could see.

Crowley nodded. “Put it on the table. You remember what it says, yeah?” 

Aziraphale clutched at the notebook like a paper shield. Everything he had written was meaningless. There would be no carefully constructed sentences, no beautiful wordplay to guide him through. This was not a book, where raw emotion could be edited down into beautiful prose. Whatever he was going to say would be raw and ugly and honest. Aziraphale set the notebook very carefully beside the unopened case. Crowley didn't so much as glance at it. 

“Now remove your trousers. Underwear as well.”

Aziraphale snapped his gaze from the case to Crowley's face. This.... he'd said he hadn't wanted...There was a moment where they both wondered if he was going to comply. Aziraphale had expected to be asked to remove his shirt, his protective layers of tie and vest, but not his trousersand certainly not his underwear. Crowley made no move, no further request, just waited. This was a test, Aziraphale realised, and he could either trust the demon, give himself over, or they could stop this right now. Aziraphale did as he was asked, feeling more naked than he would have if he were asked to disrobe completely. He had to have faith that the demon would not take what Aziraphale could not give. 

“Face down on the armchair.” 

No hesitations this time, despite the compromising position. He concentrated on the upholstery, tracing over the Jacobean floral patterns and trying desperately not to focus instead on the click of the case clasps and straining to place Crowley from sound and sense alone. He still jumped when he felt Crowley's hand on his back. They rarely touched, even casually and rarer still with any deliberate action. But the hand was hot and heavy on his back and Crowley used it to steady himself as he sank down to the floor behind him.

“When you're ready, I want you to tell me what you've done. When you've done that I'm going to hit you with this.”

Aziraphale trembled as he felt a long, thin switch placed gently over the back of his legs. He couldn't tell what it was made from and felt a sharp bloom of disappointment. Aziraphale had seen martyrs. He'd know men and women who tormented their bodies in an attempt to distract themselves from the sins of the flesh. He's seen flagellants whose whips and cords mortified their flesh to drive out sin and their sins did not begin to compare with his own. And yet Crowley thought that a small rod would be enough? Surely there was more in the case. Perhaps he was starting soft to see what he could take? 

“Whenever you'd like to begin.” 

He took a deep breath and tried to remember what it was he had written but all of his carefully crafted words had fled. The only thing he could think of was the last, the one he knew Crowley was most upset about. It was as good a place to start as any. 

“I lied about the body swap. About what I thought would happen.” 

_Crack._

“Augh!” He hadn't been able to help the grunt that escaped him. That had _hurt._ Aziraphale had been built for war, had battled the rebels in the fields of Heaven. But six thousand years of mostly peaceful living had rendered him soft. He simply hadn't felt pain greater than a hastily miracled away papercut in more years than he could remember. Aziraphale was suddenly very grateful that Crowley hadn't chosen to start with a more extreme option. 

“Green?”

“Green.” He could not help the flush of embarrassment that he had even been asked. This would have to be another thing for his list, if he ever got through it.

“Why did you lie about the swap? Be specific.”

Aziraphale swallowed. The stripe across the top of his thighs stung. They hadn't gone too far, not yet. He could call it off. Instead he said, “I lied so that I could take the punishment intended for...” and here he stumbled. He could not say _for you,_ his mouth simply wouldn't make the words. Instead he said, "The punishment meant for...the Demon Crowley."

He felt Crowley still, and his breath caught knowing that the other was affected by his choice of words. He wanted to explain, to make him see...

_Crack._

Another grunt. He'd been distracted and should have known better, should have prepared himself. And it hurt but it was no less than he deserved.

"And why did you do that? Why did you take what wasn't yours?"

"Because I deserved it. I deserved to be punished," Aziraphale blurted out, unable to control himself, "because, because I'm a bad angel!"

He braced himself, but no blow fell. Instead he felt Crowley shift and lean closer. "You're going to have to be a lot more specific." The demon said, low and close, "If you think you needed to be punished then you need to tell me how you earned it."

Aziraphale nodded, but Crowley was not done. "I am going to hit you again now, because you gave t _hem_ permission to hurt you and they had no right to it." The last was said in a possessive hiss.

 _Crack_. This one felt different. It hurt, of course it did, but there was something else in it. _Forgive me_.

Aziraphale drew a deep breath. He knew his path now, could see what it was that he had craved for so long. Absolution.

"I have been a bad angel. I have performed temptations at the behest of the Demon Crowley." _crack_ "I was lazy. I blamed the Demon Crowley when I was too lazy to do the job." _crack_. "I have let myself grow soft, both physically and emotionally." c _rack._

The blows stung particularly where they started to overlap. He thought he'd start getting used to them, but each one sang bright and clear. He was physically afraid of the blows, his body involuntarily shifting forward and away from each strike but had nowhere to go. And yet the confessions kept on coming.

"I have given in to my flesh and felt gluttony, sloth and lust."

_Crack_

Crowley's voice cut through the pain, sounding rough and raw. "Specifics. On the last"

"I never acted on the last, but the thoughts were there." Aziraphale let out a strange laugh that sounded like a sob, feeling oddly absurd about justifying that to a demon, to that demon in particular.

"Who?"

Oh he was going to make him say it? Did he really not know or was this part of what they were doing? Another laugh like a sob. "The… the Demon Crowley. Others, mortals, but always the Demon Crowley. Always."

 _Crack_. Sob. Laugh.

"I questioned the will of God when she brought about the great flood. I have questioned the will of Heaven a thousand times since."

"Try harder," Crowley growled, "If you think _I_ am going to punish you for _that_ you've another thing coming. You want to be hit, earn it!"

Aziraphale felt a wave of anger, washing up against a stony shore. "Because I said nothing! I didn't think they were doing the right thing and I did not speak against it!"

 _Crack._ His backside and thighs were on fire. Fire could hurt, but it could cleanse too. This was right. It was good. He felt another laugh bubbling inside him and choked it down.

“I blamed you. I blamed the Demon Crowley for my own faults”

This one wasn't immediate, but waiting made it worse. _Crack_.

“I wanted the Arrangement. I...” Aziraphale had trouble catching his breath, catching his words so he could shove them back inside and pretend there was nothing more so this could be over, but instead the horrible truth kept spilling out, “I ...made suggestions, dropped hints. I made it so y... so the Demon Crowley thought it was his idea.”

_CRACK_

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

 _CRACK_ “Liar.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, in a breathless, utterly lightheaded way. “Because I couldn't keep away from you. Because I thought you would figure it out. Because I was terrified of being caught. Because I wanted to be caught and for it to finally be over.” 

Crowley did not strike again. The brief respite was worse, somehow, because it really wasn't over for Aziraphale and it may never be over. “When the Demon Crowley Fell he should have taken me with him.”

“You need to say it. Beg my forgiveness for it.” Crowley's voice was rougher than he had ever heard it, as though he'd been yelling through smoke.

“Forgive me. I did not speak for you at your trial.”

_Crack_

“Good,” Crowley said, little louder than a breath, “Why didn't you speak for me?”

“Because I was afraid. Because I am a coward.”

 _Crack._ This one was worse than any of the others. Not harder, but seemed to hit every stripe that had been laid before.

“Say it.” Crowley's breathing was shallow. Aziraphale could hear it over the blood pounding in his ears and the loud throbbing of his thighs.

“I was afraid of being thrown out of Heaven. I was afraid they would think I was a traitor because I agreed with you about showing the rebels mercy.” He braced himself for the switch that didn't come. Instead Crowley's hand returned to his back, rubbing soft circles. “I won't punish you for that. That's their problem, not ours.” 

Aziraphale wanted to scream. He didn't want Crowley's kindness, that wasn't what this was about. It angered him. There had always been a darkness in him, enough of a bastard to be able to find exactly the words he knew would get a reaction. He knew the demon well.

“I was afraid to be like you.” 

_Crack. Crack._

“Crowley...”

_Crack. Crack. CRACK._

Crowley did not stop. Blow after blow, each one feeling harder than the last. He would not stop. Aziraphale found himself weeping, begging. “Please stop, I'm sorry, please”

He could feel Crowley's anger in each blow. He had pushed for a reaction, but this...

“Is that right, _Angel_?” the demon snarled, all wrath and rage and violence, “Am I everything you hate about yourself? AM I?”

“No! That's not true! I'm sorry.” But it was. Aziraphale had been terrified that there was something in him that matched the demon. There had always been Crowley, brave and bright, saying all the things Aziraphale had been afraid to. And there he had been turning it all to dirt. _You lie, that's what demons do. You lie, you lust, you tempt, you are good when you are meant to be evil, you are brave when I am not and I could not stand it!_

He gathered the tattered pieces of himself. “STOP! RED, Crowley, stop. Please. I'm sorry.” 

There was one last _crack_ but it was a blow that never landed. Instead, the broken pieces of the switch clattered against the far bookshelves. Then there was nothing. 

Aziraphale slid backwards onto his knees, the back of his legs, thighs and buttocks a sea of fire. It hurt, of course it hurt, but worse still was the sight of Crowley in the armchair opposite. He'd made himself small, bringing his knees to his chest, feet on the chair, head down and long, bony wrists crossed above his head, as if to shield himself from the sky that was falling in.

Aziraphale had made him small. He's courted Crowley for centuries but always pushed him away at the final stem. He'd cultivated a friendship that he had rejected at every turn. Aziraphale had sensed love, but refused to believe in it. And even when faced with undeniable proof he'd responded by giving Crowley _holy water_ and rejecting him yet again.

God had punished Crowley by making him Fall, but Aziraphale had punished them both time and time again. He saw now how much of a dreadfully bad idea this had been, to make Crowley act the sadist when he knew damn well it was the thing Crowley hated most. And for what? To keep punishing them? For the initial sin of _mercy_?

Angels were not merciful, and in this Aziraphale had been a better angel than most.

He made his way slowly, painfully on his knees to his friend's side, every movement no less than he deserved, but for reasons he only now was beginning to understand.

“I was such a fool” he said, “I've hurt us both for a very, very long time. I understand if you want nothing to do with me.”

Crowley made a sound that might have been a cry.

Aziraphale settled at the feet of the armchair, feeling every fibre of the carpet on his battered legs, and rested his head against Crowley's bony ankle. “I blamed you and I was wrong. I don't know the words to make this right; all I know is that I have been dreadfully unfair on you, and that you are the dearest thing to me. I love you.”

Then, unexpectedly, he felt Crowley's fingers in his hair. Soft, gentle and more wonderful than any blessing or miracle he had ever witnessed or performed.

It felt like grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment to let me know you're here.


	7. Choosing someone

“You look sharp, dear.”

* * *

He'd barely stepped inside the shop, but he stopped to do a slow turn to let Aziraphale admire his outfit because he did, indeed, look sharp. Sharp as a tack. Sharp as a knife.

Crowley had manifested the suit straight from a fashion magazine, where the clothing tended towards long, lean androgynous frames. He wasn't sure where a normal person would actually go to buy these things and usually never bothered to actually purchase anything except a few favourite accessories, and of course his underwear. He'd never gotten around to asking, but he assumed that during his bathtub trial Aziraphale had clothed him in something generic, practical and modest, which was exactly the opposite of the drawer full of pretty things Crowley purchased for himself. Sharp, yes, from innermost layer to outermost. It put a sorely needed spring in his step.

_Don't think about it. Not today._

“You don't think this is too old fashioned?

Crowley's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the bookshop as Aziraphale stepped forward, sounding uncharacteristically nervous about his clothing. Crowley caught his breath.

“Nah,” he replied, going for a casual tone and failing, “'s classic style. Anyway, retro is in.”

Aziraphale looked less than convinced. “If you're sure? I, uh, had to have it cleaned. It still had church rubble on it. Dust and the like.”

Meaning he hadn't worn it since. Crowley had seen Aziraphale in this suit exactly once, although Crowley wasn't totally sure of the significance. That night in the church had been a reconciliation of sorts after their fight and a good number of years apart. For Crowley that night had been marked by blisters on the soles of his feet, Aziraphale's face when he realised the books had been saved, and the first time the angel had been inside the Bentley. For Aziraphale it meant something else, obviously, or he wouldn't have kept the suit unwashed and unworn for so many years or be wearing it now. He'd call Aziraphale out for being sentimental but there was a great hulking stone eagle in his own office that named him a hypocrite.

“I like the suit, angel. It looks good on you.” It did, the slightly darker than usual fabric in better condition than Aziraphale's usual threadbare but comfortable clothing. It still looked like him, but less worn and ever so slightly more dangerous.

Aziraphale beamed in the way that reminded Crowley of the bubble in a newly opened bottle of good champagne. It looked like innocence and felt like goodness that crackled and fizzed against the demon inside him. And that was the thing about Aziraphale; whatever he may believe about himself, he _was_ good.

Crowley liked pissing people off. He wasn't down with killing or torture which didn't thrill him the way it did for some demons, but he was definitely down with the absolute and undeniable pleasure of completely ruining someone's day, especially if he could make them believe that it was all their own fault. It was what he was good at. The best, really, and he really enjoyed his work. But it had always been different when it came to Aziraphale. Sure, being a nuisance to him was often a riot, but what he really liked was producing those frisson-bubbles of joy, of wonder and goodness which sparked painfully wonderful against his blackened soul. And to get those he found himself acting outside his demonic nature to find things that would please the angel.

Aziraphale bubbled around the shop, ducking behind the counter to retrieve a white wrapped wedding gift topped with a black bow. “From both of us, I hope you don't mind?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, not having thought of it at all, “Probably for the best. I'm not really great with choosing gifts.”

Aziraphale shot him a look and Crowley was reminded of the hundreds of little gifts he's given Aziraphale over the years, but fortunately the angel didn't call him out on it. _I'm the one who's bloody soft._

He waited while Aziraphale fussed around some more, reassuring him twice that he looked nice and finally reminding him that they were going to be late if they didn't get a move on, which Crowley couldn't care less about but he knew Aziraphale did. Eventually the bookshop was locked and they stepped out into the sunlight of a day that looked like Heaven but would probably turn on them before the night ended.

Crowley was focused on getting them into the car and gone, but before he headed around to his side he felt Aziraphale's hand on his wrist. The touch pulled him up short, as it had intended.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley gritted his teeth. He hadn't said anything. He hadn't done anything to make Aziraphale think something was wrong, so he didn't know why in Heaven's name he was bringing this up now.

“Fine,” He said, pulling his hand away and walking to his door, then out of spite, “How's your arse?”

He's do almost anything to get that frisson of goodness, but he also really enjoyed pissing people off. _A kiss with a fist is better than none._

Aziraphale got in the passenger's seat and adjusted his tie. “Fine, thank you for asking” he said with banal politeness, as though the question was anything else.

“So glad to hear it!” Crowley heard himself saying back with bite.

Aziraphale's voice was firm and gentle. “We will need to talk about this sometime, Crowley. A great many things were said and done and I don't think...”

“We do not need to talk about this! Absolutely, positively not. Can we not just agree that it was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, and never speak of it again?” Because things _had been said_ and they _had been done_ and Crowley still had no idea what any of it meant except that it had been a monumentally stupid notion to begin with and at least one of them was meant to be smarter than that.

They drove out of London was mostly in silence, with Aziraphale not even complaining about potential discorporation or the various hazards to London's pedestrian population. There was a brief note of pre-emptive disapproval when Crowley came up behind some road cyclists just outside of London, a growing trend he'd encouraged to annoy other road uses only to forget that _he_ was a road user himself. “Fine” he muttered and did not nudge them into a roadside ditch. If said cyclists found themselves with an unusual amount of chafing later it was literally the least he could do.

Crowley prayed to whoever was still taking his calls that the Bentley's tape player would behave, and let out a small huff of annoyance when “Bicycle Race” started playing as of c _ourse it bloody well would._ It could, and did get worse. They were treated to the whole Queen back catalogue of moany regret and poor choices after that, with not a single cheerful tune to be heard. After “Too Much Love Will Kill You” even Aziraphale seemed to get fed up and shut the tape player off.

“Are you absolutely certain this car isn't possessed?” Aziraphale asked, not for the first time. Possessed or semi-sentient, it seemed to have developed Crowley's taste for annoying people by poking wounds better left to heal.

“I should never have lost control like that. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.” The words ran out of Crowley's mouth completely unbidden. No demonic miracle could push them back in. Why the hell couldn't he just keep quiet?

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, “please don't beat yourself up over it. I should never have put you in that position in the first place and I knew what I was saying was....”

He was cut off by Crowley's partly hysterical laugh. He got himself under control for a brief moment, before looking at Aziraphale's confused expression and setting off again.

“I don't see what's so funny?” Which only made Crowley laugh harder. He could practically see Aziraphale mentally reviewing what he had said before the angel let out a horrified laugh of his own. They couldn't stop, either of them, and Crowley pulled over because otherwise they would actually crash, discorporate and need explain to Heaven and Hell that they died because they were laughing over _that_.

“I think there is something very wrong with us.” Aziraphale said eventually, meaning both the laughter and probably everything else as well.

“Yeah, probably.” Crowley replied, pulling back out onto the road.

The wedding was in a small village not too far from Exeter. Crowley absolutely detested the deplorable stench of rapeseed in flower, although Aziraphale declared the garish yellow fields to be delightful. Although the wedding was taking place in a small church in the village, Crowley and Aziraphale headed to the small hall that would host the reception.

“You can probably catch some of the wedding if you like,” Crowley offered, “I can wait here until it's over.”

“I've chosen to be here with you.” Which was pointed and heavy handed and a wee bit melodramatic and yet still gave Crowley a lump in his throat. He ducked his head to deny Aziraphale the satisfaction of seeing him affected and Aziraphale had the grace not to mention it. The hall wasn't open yet as they were early, so they waited outside, Crowley leaning laconically against a railing. Aziraphale stood next to him. Down the hill yellow fields glowed in the afternoon sun.

“I wasn't sure you'd still want to come to the wedding with me, after everything.”

For Chri...Satan's sake, why couldn't Aziraphale leave well enough alone? “Said I'd come, didn't? Anyway, I like weddings. Easy pickings when it comes to temptations. Plus there's usually free booze.”

“Yes,” replied Aziraphale with mild amusement, I do remember you overindulging at a certain wedding in Cana.”

“Water into wine, Aziraphale! Everyone 'overindulged' at that one!” Crowley laughed. He could tell Aziraphale wasn't going to be distracted that easily, “I'm here, aren't I? You're not the only one who chose.”

“You forgive me?”

“Do you?”

Whatever Aziraphale had been going to say in response to that was cut off by a middle-aged plump woman in a green pillbox hat who called out to them as she approached.

“Halloo!” she called, “Marjorie said there's be a couple who couldn't make it to the service. Everyone's heading over now, I'm just opening up.”

Aziraphale smiled and made small talk with her, Crowley once again glad he wasn't expected to be nice to people just because they were there. Inside the small hall were a few tables decorated with colourful flowers. This wasn't a lavish, extravagant wedding, but modest and lovely. Something about it reminded him very much of Aziraphale and himself, but he nipped that thought in the bud before it could bloom into something absurd. As promised the other guests weren't far behind.

They found their seating cards on a table with two others. Aziraphale picked up on of the other cards. “Crowley, I think we're seated with...”

“Bicycle girl!” Crowley hailed her as she approached the table. He couldn't remember her actual name, but was good with faces. She'd been at the airbase as well, although they didn't say much to each other at the time.

“Anathema,” Aziraphale supplied, taking the young woman's hand, “So good to see you.”

She was accompanied by a tall fellow with a bit of a hopeless look about him who had also been at the base. What was this, a post-apocalypse reunion special? Crowley looked around but there was no child Antichrist in sight.

“This is my boyfriend, Newton Pulsifer. He helped with the apocalypse.” The young man shook their hands with the earnestness of someone who probably did everything earnestly. Crowley decided he didn't like him.

“I remember you,” the young man said, and Crowley tried not to roll his eyes. A sharp elbow from Aziraphale indicated he didn't quite succeed. “Isn't one of you a demon?”

Crowley wiggled his fingers. “So you're the angel then?” Pulsifer said to Aziraphale, “Wow. I still can't really get my head around it all. Weird hey?”

“Definitely an interesting time,” Anathema added, her tone telling them she was aware her boyfriend was being a little bit painful. Crowley decided that he'd probably like her, despite her taste in partners.

“How do you know Tracy and Shadwell? Just from the apocalypse?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Actually I'm technically still Witchfinder Private Pulsifer. That's how I met Shadwell. He recruited me.” Crowley screwed up his face.

“Aren't Witchfinders meant to burn witches, not date them?” Aziraphale asked.

“Aren't Angels and Demons meant to be enemies?” Anathema retorted. Yeah, Crowley definitely liked her. He's always has a bit of a soft spot for witches in general though.

They were saved from any further small talk by the appearance of Tracy and her “young man” as Aziraphale ridiculously referred to Shadwell. The Witchfinder Sargent had made an effort with a new-ish suit and a bright yellow flower in his buttonhole. Tracy had the audacity to wear white.

Crowley was caught up with their little group who approached the couple to offer their congratulations.

“So glad you could make it!” Tracy coo'd and Aziraphale responded with some nonsence. Crowley was too distracted by the little scene unfolding between the two Witchfinders and a witch.

“I see ya still shacked up w' the harlot 'o the 'devil?” Shadwell was saying in his eye-watering accent.

“Harlot of the devil?” Anathema raised a eyebrow at Crowley, who put up his hands in innocence and said “I really don't know her _that_ well.”

“I don't think I'm his type. But yes, Newt and I are still together.” There was steel in her voice, but also a measure of warmth as well. Crowley understood that, because Shadwell was so all-compassionately offensive that it was difficult to take it personally.

“Gel like that needs a real man ta' take her in hand, yer sure yer up to the job laddie?” Shadwell clapped Pulsifer, _Newt_ , on the back, leaving the young man looking both horrified and amused.

“Congratulations on your nuptials,” Crowley offered, just to see how the man would react.

Shadwell gave him a nod. They had known each other a long time, as far as humans go, and Crowley regarded him as the perfect example of the infinite variety and overall weirdness of the human species.

“Glad you and your southern pansy could make it. Tracy's fond o' him.” Which was positively polite for Shadwell. Crowley felt a little disappointed. Tracy and his 'southern pansy' were laughing over something, both looking like pure joy. What universe paired someone like them with people like him and Shadwell? Talk about bloody ineffable. From what he's understood from Aziraphale, Tracy was _kind_ , and Shadwell was.. Shadwell. Perhaps she needed someone to be kind _to_.

“I'm so glad you made it, Crowley. Every so sorry about not remembering about the church.” Then she leaned towards him and lowered her voice insufficiently, “Aziraphale tells me you boys got into a spot of trouble with some discipline, dear. You really should have spoken with me first.”

Aziraphale, close enough to hear, took on an expression of horrified panic. Newton Pulsifer gave a nervous cough and the witch pretened to have gone monetarily deaf. Crowley felt like spontaneous combusting. Tracy patted him kindly on the arm then returned to Shadwell's side to speak with another small know of well-wishers.

“Shall we sit?” Anathema said in an overly bright voice. Newt agreed enthusiastically and the young couple led on with Aziraphale and Crowley behind. Aziraphale whispered, “I'm so sorry, I thought she'd be more discreet.”

“Don't mention it. Please, for the love of Heaven and Hell, don't mention it.”

They took their seats. Thank Satan there was wine.

The reception went as these things usually did, with a small buffet and too much small talk, with the added bonus of guests who were being especially cagey about _exactly how_ they were acquainted with either the bride or groom. The company of the Witchfinder and his Witch was surprisingly good, with Aziraphale finding common ground with Anathema over her ancestor's prophecies and Crowley and Newton getting into an in-depth discussion about a particular plotline in Deep Space Nine. It was weird to spend time around mortals who knew what and who they were and didn't seem to give a fig. They'd seen stranger things than them during the Apocalypse that wasn't, and although there were a few moments where they caught themselves in awe of what Crowley and Aziraphale were, they covered it well enough to make for a pleasant evening.

“You two have seen so much,” Anathema said in response to a story Aziraphale was telling about pre-volcano Pompeii, “The years must just fly by for you. We're just a blink of an eye to you.”

“Actually they don't,” Crowley replied, catching Aziraphale's smile of agreement, “We go through time one day after another just the same as you do. There's just a lot more days. You forget a lot of things, other things become jumbled up. It's like you lot trying to remember your childhood in exact order I guess.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. “It has also been terribly important for me to have someone like Crowley in my life. I don't think Heaven or Hell really understood the need for something constant, for someone else who understands what it's like.”

They'd never talked about this part directly, it was the kind of truth that never really needed to be said. Knowing what he knew now, if it were up to him Crowley would have put Earth's agents in pairs.

Newt reached over and grabbed Anathema's hand. “It's the same with us humans, though. We just sort of bumble around, hoping to find someone enough like us to understand.”

“But not too much like us to drive us crazy,” Anathema smiled back at him, young and in love. And right.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said softly, like an unseen bomb whistling towards a church, “perhaps that's the point.”

For a small wedding there were an awful lot of toasts. When Shadwell stood to speak it became apparent that, whether due to the wine or to the unaccustomed emotion of the day, he was somewhat overwhelmed. His accent, which typically took more concentration to follow than it aught, was borderline incomprehensible. Most of the guest listened politely without the foggiest idea of what was actually being said, all except for Crowley who had once spent a decade dead drunk with a group from Dunfermline and was almost choking with laughter. While the others gave him polite applause when he was done, Crowley gave the man a standing ovation. He's never heard so many people insulted in so little time before, most of whom were sitting there without the faintest idea. Shadwell raised a glass to his appreciative audience of one.

Then Aziraphale got up to speak. He looked around the room, beaming as only he could. Then, very deliberately, he caught Crowley's eye and nodded slightly. _Are you listening?_

“I'd like to congratulate the happy couple on their wonderful wedding!”

“Here, here” said the crowd, happy for a speech they could actually follow.

“It’s tempting to say how very glad I am that they found each other. But these two had already known each other for a very long time, you see, so the wonder is not that they found each other, but that they have now _chosen_ each other.”

There was a small titter from a section of the crowd that took this unkindly that dies out when it realised nobody else would join in.

Aziraphale smiled. “It is easy to meet people, we do it all the time, but what is hard is making the decision that, for better or worse, this is the one you will stand by. It takes courage to look past a difficult history and an uncertain future and decide that now is worth it, that all the current moments of your life together are worth a thousand years of the past. It can be frightening, because often the people we choose hold a mirror to ourselves and we are so terrified of being found wanting.

It is far, far easier to push people away-” Shadwell smiled at this, and reached for Tracy's hand, “-and shut people out because you are afraid of your own demons as much as theirs. It is far easier to hide behind a cheerful mask that you present to the world because you are afraid of being truly vulnerable - ” Tracy nodded and squeezed Shadwell's hand in return “- than it is to really let someone in. But when you choose you acknowledge the mistakes you may have made in the past, and promise to try not to make them again in the future. You look closely and deeply at your flaws and, instead of making yourself bitter, you make yourself better, you work towards being worthy of love. And every being on this Earth, above and below it, is worthy of love.”

Aziraphale scanned the room again, returning once more to Crowley, who had not once looked away.

“I congratulate them on making that leap. On saying 'You are the one. I will take your hand in mine and stand by you, for the rest of my days'.” Crowley could not describe how he felt, not if he had a million words and the skill of all the artists in there world. It was big, and heavy and stretched beyond his skin. It felt like when he's stopped time for Adam, but left only he and Aziraphale in a hot and sandy forever. Aziraphale could never have fallen, they would never have been capable of dragging each other down, not together.

“Please charge your glasses for the happy couple; to love!”

“To love!”

Crowley did not raise his glass. Instead he and Aziraphale just looked to each other and knew. The angel made his way back to the table, back to him.

“That was beautiful,” Anathema said, smiling at them both. Even Newt was grinning and looking back and forth between them. Crowley had always considered humans, regardless of their more interesting qualities, to be less than perceptive. He considered he might need to revise that.

Aziraphale sat and took Crowley's hand, something he had never done before. Crowley let him.

“Will you let me stand by you?” Aziraphale asked, asking everything.

“You already did, when it mattered. When the world was ending,” Crowley answered, “And after.”

“I'm so sorry I took so long.”

Crowley smiled then. He'd always gone too fast, but Aziraphale was catching up.

Aziraphale felt lighter than he had in a long, long time. The wine, helped by both demonic and angelic intervention, had flowed beyond its initial reserves and portions of the small gathering were enjoying themselves on the dance floor. Crowley, a little bit drunk and happy in a way that had very little to do with alcohol, was trying to get him to join them.

“I can't dance!” he protested.

“So?” said Crowley, who then pointed to the dance floor where Newt was flailing, “Neither can that guy.”

Which was true, but didn't exactly change anything. “Angels don't dance.”

Crowley pulled him to his feet anyway, despite his objections. “This angel does. Did. You learned the gavotte.”

Aziraphale let himself be lead by the hand. This new familiarity was nice. “This isn't the gavotte. It's different, Crowley. This....” How could he make him see? It wasn't the dancing itself that unnerved him. “I don't know the steps!”

“There aren't any. You just have to go with it.”

Crowley was better at just letting go than Aziraphale thought he ever would be. But he was willing to learn. He bobbed along with the music, more or less, as Crowley danced like the demon he was and looked far less cool doing it than he thought he did. But that was ok, they were dancing for themselves, for their own joy, not anyone else's.

The tempo of the music changed to something slow and romantic and generically familiar. Crowley stepped closer. “It's easy,” he said, “just hold my hand like this and I'll show you.”

Aziraphale took his hand and brought the other to Crowley's shoulder. He knew how this was supposed to go, and although he was worried about getting it wrong he did it anyway. Crowley stepped closer, so they were cheek to cheek and there they swayed, slightly out of rhythm with those around them. _Just go with it_.

Earlier in the day, at the start of their drive, Crowley had looked at the sky and promised a storm. Now on their way back to London dark clouds rolled soft and heavy over the sky.

The storm would come.

Heaven and Hell were not done with them. Aziraphale knew that deep beneath his bones, but he was done with fearing it. In waiting to be punished he had been punishing himself, punishing both of them and he was done with it. Six thousand years of hating himself would not go away overnight, be he could see that at the other side of the storm there would be a new day, and he'd always liked rainbows.

One of the big human questions had always been “Why does God let us suffer?” and Aziraphale had never been able to sufficiently answer that, not after everything he had seen over the long years of his life. He'd seen such terrible suffering, but such terrible beauty as well. Some people said it was because the darkness made the light seem so much brighter, but Aziraphale didn't know if that was the reason. He barely understood the Great Plan, let alone the Ineffable one.

Aziraphale made his choices and there was no going back. Whatever they had been in the past, he was absolutely certain he was on the right path now. The old fear was still there, but he felt he could hold it up and look at it directly, that he didn't have to lock it away inside himself like a shameful secret. Crowley knew him, really knew him, and hadn't shied away.

Crowley looked out of the window at the darkening sky. “I don't think we're going to make it in time, love, there's too far to go.”

“I think we'll be fine.”

He was wrong. The storm broke before they hit London, and the rain fell clean and cold and fresh. It washed the streets of London and the stoop of his bookshop. It fell on just over eight million people, a demon, and an angel .

But that was fine too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiss with a fist is a song by Florence and the machine
> 
> Special thanks to ineffiable_plans who kicked my butt into getting this done.
> 
> Please, if you made it this far, drop me a comment. This beast ended up being much bigger than originally intended.


End file.
